Monday, June 30, 2014

Planting Calendar

On several occasions, people have asked what to plant when. But here's the thing—what to plant when is very dependent upon the climate of an individual garden. I can plant my onions out in January when people in other parts of the world are wondering if they'll ever see the soil under the snow again. That's an extreme example, so here's one closer to home. I pass gardens on my way to work all the time during the schoolyear. My school is about 25 miles away and 850 feet in elevation lower than where I live. One my favorite gardens I see on the way to work has corn sprouting each year in February. February! At my house, in the beginning of February, we still get light frosts. Other people nearby may have more shade than I do, or heavier soil, or be tucked between two hills.

The essential lesson of gardening is experimentation. That demands rule-breaking, curiosity, and a willingness to occasionally bet on the wrong horse. Every seed packet and book in the world will tell you that direct seeding in mounds ("hills") is the best option for cucurbits (melons, squash, etc), but I struggle to keep mounded soil moist enough in the warm months I plant them. This year, I planted in used six packs, and as soon as the little buggers had true leaves, planted them out in even, not mounded soil. My cucurbits had a better start this year than ever. (Of course, now, they're suffering because I haven't been watering enough. Shame on me. Note to self, melons and squash need lots and lots of water.) I'm sharing what usually works for me based on lots of failures. If your climate is identical in every way to mine—which, come on, you know it isn't—this may work for you. If not, please note that this calendar doesn't look like others you'd find in a book. In other words, throw the rules out, think about your soil, your sun, your water, and other factors, and take chances on when to plant. Keep in mind, the difference between year to year can through a wrench in garden planning, too. Be ready to fail; winning will be all the sweeter.

Glossary
Chitting: Letting potatoes develop sprouts by exposing them to light.
Direct seed: Plant by seed directly into the garden soil.
Heat and light: Plant in either a makeshift or actual greenhouse that is powered by the sun or electricity.
Plant out: Plant seedlings into the garden soil.
Six packs: Small six-cell plastic containers used to sell six seedlings at a time; I wash used six packs and reuse them over and over.
Slips: Shoots that grow off of sweet potatoes that will eventually become the plants you plant out in the garden.

January
Direct seed:
Peas
Salad greens (arugula, mache, lettuces)

With heat and light:
Eggplants
Peppers
Tomatoes

Plant out:
Onion seedlings (I purchase these)

Other:
Start sweet potatoes with a toes in glasses of water on windowsills

February
Direct seed:
Salad greens (arugula, mache, lettuces, endives, and chicories)
Cooking greens (chard and mustard)
Pole beans
Cilantro

With heat and light:
Tomatillos



March
Direct seed:
Pole beans
Carrots
Beets
Cooking greens (amaranth, chard, mustard)
Cilantro

In six packs:
Squash, melons, and cucumbers

Plant out:
Tomatoes

April
Direct seed:
Corn
Okra
Cilantro

In six packs:
Squash and melons

Plant out:
Sweet potato slips
Tomato seedlings
Eggplant seedlings
Pepper seedlings
Tomatillo seedlings
Squash, melon, and cucumber seedlings






May
Direct seed:
Asian long beans
Corn
Lima beans

Plant out:
Sweet potato slips
Squash and melon seedlings










June
Direct seed:
Asian long beans
Corn
Lima beans

















July
There's a lot to eat this month, but not much to plant. Planting, for me, starts next month again.








August
In six packs:
Broccoli
Rutabagas
Kale
Cabbage








September
Direct seed:
Pole beans
Endives and chicories
Carrots

In six packs:
Broccoli
Cabbage

Other:
Place planting potatoes somewhere bright to begin chitting






October
Direct seed:
Endives and chicories
Salad greens
Turnips
Peas
Fava beans

Plant out:
Garlic
Broccoli seedlings
Rutabaga seedlings
Kale seedlings
Cabbage seedlings
Potatoes







November
Plant out:
Broccoli seedlings
Cabbage seedlings

December
Sit back and enjoy the harvests. This, for me at least, is the easiest garden month.

Tuesday, June 17, 2014

Walnuts and Time

This is the third year I've made nocino, and as long as I have access to my friend's tree full of green—immature—walnuts, I imagine I'll make it every year. The first year I made it, I followed to a T the directions a friend gave me. Months later, when I tasted the result, first I fell in love, and second I realized it had more citrus than necessary and it didn't need the cinnamon (blasphemy according to some Italians). So, last year, I tweaked the recipe a bit, cutting back the citrus, removing the cinnamon entirely, deepening with a few coffee beans and a whole vanilla bean. I was happy with the result and am making it the same way this year. But, who knows? Maybe next year I'll replace some of the vodka with brandy and the cloves with allspice. The tannic solidity of a green walnut invites curiosity.

My friend who says to me, "Name your price for nocino," also says, "It tastes like Christmas." Another friend made a double batch last year to use in his version of Black Manhattans—his double batch didn't make it through a year.

Nocino fits in the category of Italian digestifs called Amaro, which means "bitter." And it is bitter, but it's also silky, and rich, sweet, and oaky. It tastes like what Ents would drink at a party. I love it.

To make nocino the way I did this year, you will need:

6 coffee beans
7 whole cloves
1 whole vanilla bean
3 1"x2" strips of orange or Meyer lemon rind, colored part only (use a peeler)
2 1/2 cups organic sugar
1 liter vodka
30 green, smaller than golf-ball walnuts

Additionally, you'll need a very large jar, gloves, a sharp knife, and a cutting board you can stain without feeling bad about it.

In your large jar, swirl together the first six ingredients.

Wear those gloves, and working on the old cutting board, quarter the green skinned walnuts. You'll find the nutmeat inside is completely translucent, like an invisible, watery brain, and what will become the shell is pale and chalk-like. As you cut the walnuts, drop them into the vodka mixture. Once finished, swirl the ingredients together one more time, then seal the jar.

Place the jar in your "experiment closet," which you probably have, because you're making this recipe in the first place. (Mine is a closet in our bedroom that contains many things for its small size, but mostly large jars in various stages of steeping sweet, aromatic, or both sweet and aromatic ingredients in alcohol bases.) Leave the jar there for eight or ten weeks, swirling it when you remember to do so. Over time, the sugar will dissolve and the tannins in the green walnuts will stain the liqueur deep brown-black.

After the eight or ten weeks have passed, carefully strain the liqueur, first through a colander for the big chunks, then through clean fabric or a coffee filter to remove any other grit. Pour the strained mixture into a clean jar or bottle, and let it age in the "experiment closet" for another few months. Try it around Thanksgiving. Keep trying it at different ages.

My goal is to keep a small bottle of each year for as long as I can, so when I sample the year's batch in the late fall, I can taste it in a flight of years, to see how age changes the product. I'm sure from year to year, I'll play with various aromatic ingredients, yet none of those tinkerings will weaken the dark, mysterious soul of this liqueur, a soul that centers on only two ingredients: green walnuts and time.


Friday, June 13, 2014

Summer Begins

Yesterday was the last day I had to be at work for the 2013-2014 school year. Now, summer sits ahead of me, ripe and fragrant and full of possibility.

I celebrated the beginning of my freedom yesterday by heading straight from work to The Huntington.





While walking through my familiar corners of the garden, I found myself under a Rose Apple in blossom with fruit hanging on it too, in various degrees of ripeness. Though I've read about this fruit, I've never tried it. Something named a Rose Apple must be tasted, right? I looked around to check for garden staff; seeing none, I pulled a ripe looking fruit—they appear nearly identical to guavas—off the tree, smelled it, then bit right in.




Ha! A fruit that tastes identical to rose-scented Turkish Delight.

It's going to be a great summer.